


Synthesis

by austeres



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-14 04:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14127612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/austeres/pseuds/austeres
Summary: “I do. I do care.”“Then prove it.”





	Synthesis

**Author's Note:**

> First time posting anywhere ever, it’s a bit of a rough draft, but still.

“I do. I do care."  
“Then prove it.”  
A beat. Pride swells in you. You never found the allure of using your words as a weapon until now. After all, you learned from the best. She’s shocked, but maybe in another time and place she would be proud too. In three words you destroyed her trust, with you she did with one. Her façade in this rare moment slightly slips. You’d consider this a victory some other time, but this is more than power play, this is admission. And then some.  
You hope.  
Her silence is as filthy as the syringe they held to your throat.  
“How?”  
Her voice comes out small, pleading, seeking. It lacks the smooth lacquer it often possesses. You smirk, because it sounds a little like you. David indeed defeats Goliath. 

“That’s not for me to figure out isn’t it, Joan?”  
You expect silence. Silence, you’ve learned from her, is defeat. Half-correct. It comes. You think you’re just as good as her at this. You start to understand why she likes to fuck with everyone’s minds. Oh and how you long to control hers. This is a baby step. 

Your hand is still under hers, the pad of her thumb that once stroked your knuckles is now paralysed by your venom. Her touch is colder than your blue eyes. You pull away rather boorishly. It seems that she knows only a few words in the English vocabulary that do not combine to an insult or a condescending sentence.  
You scoff, for dramatics, (you’re used to dismissal anyway) get up from the table and make your way to the door, but a slam of the table visibly startles you. 

A mouse with teeth is still a mouse. 

You hear steps, she gets in the way, you ask her to move. She doesn’t budge. Maybe she heard fear in your voice. You say it again, with bravado this time, but she doesn’t budge. She instead raises a steak knife on her right hand, and wounds her left. Her eyes become sable. Colour starts to leave your face as you watch this and it’s suddenly a punishment to take a deep breath. She quickly searches for yours and faster than you can put on your brave girl mask she finds your palm and makes a small, clean, cut. Deep enough to draw blood, not enough for atonement. 

Crimson liquid from both of you seeps. And after a few drips they meet.  
For a woman who actively denies herself of any human touch she sure seeks yours a lot.  
She finds your bloody hand and melds it with hers. You don’t protest. Not like you ever will. No one says a word, only laboured breathing of subsiding adrenaline can be heard.


End file.
